


In My Feelings

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 2010s music, Androids, Body Horror, But also, Connor is full of feels, Couch Sex, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Frantic Sex, Inspired by Music, Intense, Late at Night, M/M, One Shot, Overwhelmed Connor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Song Lyrics, happy connor, in that connor does some freaky shit when he's horny, just a lot of introspection and fucking, like accidentally detaching his legs, which in this context is vintage af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 17:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: While Hank (and Sumo) are asleep, Connor is awake and in his feelings.





	In My Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> I did comedy so I guess the natural next step is absurdly emotional pretentious shit?

* * *

Connor isn’t sure of much anymore. Existing in a state of deviance has shaken his monolithic absolutes and brought them crumbling down. The world, once black and white, is awash in more grey tones than he knows what to do with, yet one thing remains.

Hank. The affection he feels, like a tightness in his chest. He cannot call it love in the human sense but it is analogous. It is as much a feeling of devotion and fondness as love is, when humans describe it, and so, perhaps erroneously and perhaps not, he calls it such, in the privacy of his own free mind.

Hank, he knows, has a shyness to him, hidden beneath a layer of snark and assertion. He lets it show in his eyes in the mornings, when the sun comes in the window and turns his hair into a spray of metallic filaments, or late in the night when he lifts the corner of his blanket, letting Connor join him when he knows the android has no need of sleep. Connor knows his fixation discomforts his human sometimes, so he does his most thorough perusal when the man is asleep. He sits awake in the blue dark of the bedroom, lets his eyes linger on all the places Hank tries to hide. It’s a meditative sort of silence, punctuated by the gentle cadence of his family breathing in and out, living tissue and pink lungs, a cold dog’s nose against the plastic of Connor’s ankle, a warm weight at his side.

In the stillness, Connor’s psyche reels and roils like a wild, churning ocean. He feels so much of good, big good, and warm. He turns off his skin and feels it in his biocomponents, lighting up like a complete circuit, like Hank’s face when he smiles, like Christmas lights and the city at night and every bit of beauty this mans opened his eyes to. He calls up songs inside his head, old things he isn’t sure Hank would like now, but thinks he may have listened to when he was a smooth-faced youth with the same itch inside him to go outside and live, to take the whole of the world in his hands and bite into it, to fill himself with sensation and experience the universe. In the silence, he listens to the hit songs of an earlier age. He’s eager, he’s hungry, he wants to hear every melody that Hank has ever hummed under his breath.

_It’s enough just to make you feel crazy_

_Sometimes, it's enough just to make you feel crazy_

_You get ready, you get all dressed up_

_To go nowhere in particular_

_Back to work or the coffee shop_

_Doesn't matter 'cause it's enough_

_To be young and in love_

_To be young and in love_

The words make sense to him, for in his way, he _is_ young, and the world is fresh and raw enough to sting, like new updates when they first install. A dizzying rush that makes him want to laugh for the sake of laughing when there’s nothing funny at all, just a joy so great it rends him to pieces and scatters him to the winds.

He sits still and envisions running, leaping up from the bed and pushing himself to his limits. No clothes, no skin, just mechanical parts, tearing through the streets of downtown, cruising in a fast car, riding on a roller coaster screaming until his voice module is fried.

“Kid?”

A low rumble brings him back to himself. He startles, replaces his skin, blushing blue in the moonlight. Hank rolls over, making Sumo snuffle in protest from the foot of the bed.

“You okay?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Connor nods and wishes he could sync with Hank and share it all at once. Words seem clumsy when his thoughts are a speeding blur.

“I feel happy,” he says and means it, and the smile on Hank’s face is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It’s impossible – he has to taste it – to let his tongue map and categorize until a human hand nudges him back – he forgets sometimes, Hank needs to breathe.

“You could say that again,” Hank pants. “Damn.”

“Let me show you,” Connor pleads, and when Hank doesn’t refuse, he takes one of those big, work-roughened hands and pulls him out of bed. Sumo snores and kicks in his sleep. Hank grumbles good-naturedly. Connor gets him out into the hallway and kisses him again, steering him into the living room where the moonlight is the strongest. Hank spares a glance and a thought for the neighbours, but the chances are, they’re all in bed, and if they’re not then Connor dares them to watch through the windows, to judge – to envy what the two of them have.

Hank lets him press him down against the couch, chest heaving, hair loose and mussed. He wets his lower lip with his tongue and Connor buzzes in response, an involuntary noise as his processing speed is compromised by the sheer amount of want he feels. Perfect. So perfect it makes him reckless.

He descends on the human like it’s their last day on earth, squirming and writhing, turning his sensory input up until each individual hair on Hank’s legs tickling his inner thighs feel like tongues of flame. The callouses on the man’s fingers are like being dragged over concrete. He sees sparks, or fireworks, or thinks he does. Maybe he’s shorting out. He doesn’t care.

“What’s gotten into you? Jesus,” Hank gasps, because all at once, Connor’s taken his cock to the base, more grateful than ever that his artificial anatomy comes pre-lubricated and able to accommodate intrusions of varying sizes with no preliminary fuss. Hank arches up beneath him, surging like a wave, and Connor crashes back against him, white noise garbling his words when he tries to speak.

He doesn’t try to simulate human lovemaking, not when he’s so needy he’s burning up. He lets himself be greedy, lets his skin fall away and his voice revert to a series of frantic digital noises that Hank once, fond with nostalgia, compared to the sound his dial-up internet made as a kid. His hips move fast and hard enough to make Hank bite back a scream, he fucks himself on the man’s slick length with all the violent motion of a jackhammer. He bends backwards, scrambling for something to hold onto, until his fingers are scratching at the carpeting, the angle far beyond what any human frame is capable of managing. Hank yelps – thinks he’s falling – and grabs his hips to steady him, blunt fingers catching on gaps where his lower limbs attach to his pelvis. It’s all Connor can do not to pinch him, and when he shifts to accommodate the intrusion, the digits press hard into the receptors that serve as sensory input for his legs from toe to hip.

He screams, if you can call it a scream – a noise too high for a human ear to catch that wakes Sumo in the bedroom and makes him howl. Connor scarcely notices, too busy stuttering through an orgasm so intense he ejects himself from Hank’s lap by force, falling onto the floor and leaving the man to ejaculate into the empty air, a detached thigh clenched tightly in each hand. The android takes a knock to the head on the way down, coffee table striking him with enough force to pop one of his ears off. Dazed, elated, he feels his internal cooling system struggling to keep him from fully overheating as warnings blare in his head.

“– of a bitch!”

Hands – warm – gather him up. Clumsy, jerking attempts to pop his legs back into their sockets and coax his ear back on. Hank palms the back of his skull, checking for any damage, and Connor smiles, giddy with afterglow.

“I’m okay,” he says in a tinny sort of voice, like he’s talking through an intercom. Hank swears again and shakes his head.

“Thought you’d fuckin’ concussed yourself,” he exhales. “Jesus, Con. The hell was that - you went full exorcist on my dick!”

He says it with wonder, though, like he's proud. Connor's proud too, he thinks, but he doesn’t have the words, so he puts his skin back on and pulls Hank close, crawling into his lap, nuzzling his neck where his hair is stuck, curling, to his skin with sweat.

They have work in the morning – Connor knows he should insist they return to bed so Hank can sleep. Being a deviant means he can be selfish, so he ignores this in favour of sharing the post-coital silence, waiting until the human’s breathing evens out. Hank, in spite of his earlier concern and the awkward position they’re in on the couch, falls asleep predictably, as he tends to do after he comes. Connor lifts him up with superhuman ease and takes him back to the warmth of soft pillows and worn covers, cleaning him up with a tissue and tucking him in like a child, pressing a kiss to his brow. Sumo lifts his head to utter a soft ‘boof’ under his breath, then rolls over, a warm boulder smothering Hank’s feet. Connor resumes his cross-legged contemplation, chin propped up on his hand, smiling goofily down at the human’s sleeping face, fondly noting every micro expression, every movement of his eyes behind their shut lids.

He stays statue-still and reverent until the Detroit skyline in awash in pink and gold, then rises silently to fix breakfast and face the day.

_It doesn't matter if I'm not enough_

_For the future or the things to come_

_'Cause I'm young and in love_

_I'm young and in love_

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that Lana Del Rey will still be relevant when I'm Hank's age.  
> Song lyrics; Lana Del Rey - Love  
> Title's taken from another Lana track, also off of Lust for Life (which I finally got on vinyl the other day. Lo-fi Lana is fire.)


End file.
